One Hat, Two Hats, Three Hats, Four
by brightblue
Summary: Sometimes a hat is just a hat, even though it changes your whole life. Shules.
1. Chapter 1

He blames it on his father.

Of course it is his father's fault. Grooming your kid from birth to follow in your freak of nature footsteps, like this is still the Middle Ages and the family trade has to be passed down lest the whole clan's livelihood be wiped out in one fell swoop of the plague? Who does that?

The truth is, though, it's become so much a part of his daily operation that he hardly notices anymore. You might as well ask him to stop breathing or start hating pineapple or sit still for an hour. Counting hats, noticing _everything_, is as natural and uncontrollable to him as his heart beating:

Thump. Hats. Thump. Notice. Thump. Watch. Thump. Remember. Thump. _See._

His father taught him this crazy gift, how to see beyond the mundane and reveal greater truths. What his father never taught him was how to _not_.

Because sometimes a hat is just a hat, even though it changes your whole life.

_One hat. Two hats._

One is a Dodgers cap and the other UCSB. Two frat boys are sitting at the bar, hunched over and snickering so likely using fake IDs. They wear baseball caps pulled low over their faces.

_Three hats._

A short-order cook wears a black bandana (which Shawn will always contend counts as head gear) as he mans the grill. He is grilling what sounds and smells like burgers, probably for the wannabes.

_Three hats. _

There are only two other people in the bar: a crusty looking regular nursing cheap beer and the bar's owner/manager, Donnie Skibs.

Shawn hangs back as Juliet and Lassiter go talk to the man. Already, he realizes Donnie Skibs isn't their guy. The detectives do their thing and grill him on his whereabouts the night before when the second girl was attacked. But Donnie is calm and collected, and not at all cocky.

Plus, he is left-handed.

The slanting blue text on the specials board was written by a leftie. Donnie has blue chalk dust smudged on the left side of his apron. A leftie did not beat and strangle Angel Fernandez, a pretty young nurse, to death. A leftie did not leave Sheryl Kane, sociology major, in the ICU fighting for her life.

_Three hats. _

What is he missing? Donnie Skibs is not their murderer. Who is? Who else had access to the employee files at Driftwood? Attended the monster track rally last weekend? Is right-handed?

_Three hats. _

He's so close. There's just something missing. What is he missing?

Thump.

_Four._

He sees the fourth hat a heartbeat too late. Sees the second (practically hidden) exit from the kitchen an instant too late. The puzzle pieces jam together and it's too late.

Donnie Skibs is not their guy.

But Rocko Skibs is.

_Four hats._

Rocko Skibs had access to the employee files. It was Rocko's ticket to the monster truck rally, not Donnie's. Rocko Skibs is right-handed! And limps!

Shawn notices Rocko and his red hat and the second exit a moment too late.

He notices the gun pointed at him first.

"Rocko!" Donnie Skibs' shocked voice is enough to make the law enforcement duo whirl around. Shawn hears Lassiter unholster his weapon. A second later, Juliet does the same.

Once lagging behind the detectives, Shawn now finds himself in front of a loaded gun. And a red hat.

Four _damn_ hats.

Shawn's hands creep up in shocked surrender.

His heart is beating to the rhythm: _four hats, four hats, four hats_.

The world halts to a loud and grinding stop. Shawn begins to take in pieces of the scene before him: Rocko's shaking hand. The beads of nervous sweat trickling down his face. The wild, trapped, panicked look in his eyes. Lassiter's voice an octave lower than normal as he commands the criminal to drop his weapon. The soft clack of Juliet's heels on the tile floor as she leverages a better position. Donnie pleading for his brother to relinquish his gun.

Something behind Shawn catches Rocko's eye and his face darkens. His finger moves. Shawn's heart drops. Rocko pulls the trigger.

All hell breaks lose.

He is knocked to the floor. _Four hats._ Another gun goes off. _Four hats._ There is yelling. _Four hats._ Rocko drops to the ground_. Four hats._ Lassiter is bellowing.

Shawn waits for a pain that never comes.

Then, calm.

Shawn breathes. In and out. He pats down his body and sighs in relief when nothing seems amiss. Then Lassie's words register:

"This is Detective Lassiter requesting back-up to 202 Sunnyside Drive. I have an officer down. I repeat, an officer down. GET ME A DAMN AMBULANCE, NOW!"


	2. Chapter 2

It is why he could never be a cop. For all the skills he possesses to get him to that pinnacle moment of catch-the-bad-guy, when a friend is in danger his vision tunnels. Cops follow procedure and protocol. It's a no-brainer: secure the perp, secure the weapon, secure the scene. But when he hears Lassiter bark his command for help, Shawn's goal is simple and unshakable: Find Juliet. Save Juliet. _Juliet._

Thump. _Juliet. _Thump. _Juliet._

He notices nothing except the crimson flower blossoming on the junior detective's chest. As her warm blood oozes through his fingers, his mind is nothing but a jumble of what-ifs and never was.

Please, God, save Juliet.

_Four hats._

Someone Way Upstairs hates him, and that's fine, because maybe that means more goodwill for Juliet.

There are four hats in the surgical waiting room. He considers ripping the sun visor right off that old woman's blue hair, but is deterred by the potential karmic implications.

_Four hats._ Thump. _Four hats._ Thump.

Shawn squeezes his eyes shut and wills it to stop. For once, just goddamned _stop_.

He hears a whirring squeak as the orderly with the maroon cap wheels his cart of supplies out of view.

_Three hats. _

Thank God.

He opens his eyes only to be faced with his hands. They are red. Scrubbed raw by a nurse that he may have dated once as she acted overly familiar with him and rebuffed when he spoke not a word to her as she worked to remove Jules' blood from his hands. He was unmotivated to do the task on his own. The nurse missed a few spots; wine-colored crevices dot his hands. He traces them reverently.

His head is throbbing. The waiting room is quiet and still. But not peaceful. His mind clicks through the day's events like one of those old microfiche machines, scanning and rolling across details he never consciously noticed. He's trying to make sense of it all but not succeeding. Just when one piece becomes illuminated and focused, it's gone from his view, blinded by the radiance of Juliet's smile. Lassiter cuffing Rocko. The cacophony of sirens as they speed to the hospital. White coats, green scrubs, and lots of men in blue waiting. And yet, the only thing he can really concentrate on is the fluttering of Juliet's eyelashes as the paramedics worked to stabilize her for transport or the memory of the wry grin she spared him as he cracked on Lassiter's driving technique that morning.

Curiously, no one has tried to talk to him about today's events. At least, not that he recalls. He's been kind of out of it since It happened.

The worst thing is when, despite his best efforts, everything falls together.

That bullet was meant for him. Of course it was. Rocko had the gun shoved in his face, after all. But Juliet was the one who got shot. Why? Because she jumped in front of that damn bullet.

She took a bullet.

For him.

He missed the fourth hat. ("Open up your eyes, Shawn!") Missed that second exit from the kitchen. ("Rule number one: Always know your way out. Haven't I told you this before?") Didn't even get a chance to talk down Rocko the Murderer. ("That's the trick, kid. Keep 'em talking.)

And now Juliet is lying on an operating table where surgeons are fishing a bullet out of her lung.

Because of him. Because what good is noticing everything if it doesn't save the girl?

He can't get his damned mind to turn off. The forty-something guy sleeping in the corner, cowboy hat over his face. The chatty nurses. The sick hospital smell burning his lungs. The sensation of Juliet's pulse, weak and thready, against his fingers. Rocko's red hat. The strangled girls. Lassiter barking orders at the crime scene. The chief urging him to go get some sleep. Gus's arm around his shoulder. The quiet shuffle of the medical staff in the hallway. Juliet gurgling his name as he urged her to consciousness. The cherubic toddler in the sun hat, twirling in the dim light of the waiting room.

_Two hats._

Damn.


	3. Chapter 3

It could be minutes or hours or days later when his father shows up. He's measuring time in the number of hats that have come and gone and stayed and left. Forty-seven altogether. There are no hats in the room right now. It is dark outside. The waiting room is virtually empty. It must be late, perhaps the middle of the night.

"What are you doing here, Dad?" The raspy, unused quality of his voice catches him off guard.

Henry frowns, the deep lines on his face easily folding into this familiar expression. "I'm worried about you, kid. Detective Lassiter called me. He said you've been sitting here unresponsive for hours."

Shawn snorts. "Yeah, well, what would you have me do? Throw a party? Start a fucking conga line in the waiting room while Jules fights for her life?" He absently scrubs at his hands.

"Watch your language, Shawn," Henry sighs. Shawn just shakes his head. "And, from my understanding, Detective O'Hara was given a good prognosis. The surgery is just to remove the bullet and repair the puncture to her lung."

Shawn's breath hitches. "She got _shot_, Dad. Until she's out of surgery and awake and… They don't know for sure."

He feels his father's eyes studying him. He could care less right now what the old man thinks. Let him find something to nitpick about. Shawn deserves it right now, he knows. He is itching for a fight. Anything to stop the parade of thoughts marching around his head. Anything to take his mind off Juliet and all that blood. Then, in an uncharacteristically warm gesture, Henry pats his leg.

"I know, son."

What Henry knows, Shawn wishes he'd share. He's in no mood for oblique platitudes and his stony silence hopefully clues his father in to that fact. Shawn has no idea what to do with the excess of emotions and sensations running through his body. But they all boil down to this:

"It's my fault."

It feels good putting that out there. His confession. The truth.

Henry gives him a sharp look then takes a deep breath. "No, Shawn, it's _not_. Though why on earth you were allowed to be at the scene, questioning a potential murderer, is beyond me and something to discuss at a—"

"I missed him, Dad," Shawn whispers. He hates that his voice sounds decades younger now. "I counted three hats but Rocko Skibs was number four. I missed the second exit from the kitchen and then Rocko had his gun on _me_. I knew Donnie wasn't our guy but I never said anything. I realized it was Rocko a moment too late. I should've known. I should've _known_. I should be the one being operated on right now. That bullet was for _me_. And Juliet—" His voice cracks and he cannot finish talking beyond the lump in his throat. Shawn ducks his head into his hands.

"Shawn," begins Henry, cracking his knuckles. "It's not your fault. Sometimes the pieces fall into place too late. Sometimes you miss something. There's nothing you can do now. It's over and done. No point in dwelling on the past." Henry pauses, folding his hands back into his lap. "And as for you being the one shot, well, that is never a scenario I want to face. Ever. Understand?"

Shawn barely registers the words his father says. He stands up for the first time in what must be hours. His legs feel weak and he would fall if not for the sheer will to remain upright. He starts to pace the floor.

"Every waking minute, I can't stop counting fucking hats! Juliet gets shot because I screw up and miss _one_. I can tell you every detail of that scene right down to pattern on the tile floor. But you know what? The moment I realized she got shot? It all went out the window. I remember nothing but the bluish color of her lips and the look of panic on her face." He stops in his tracks, turns to face his father.

"She was _scared_, Dad. I know that beyond a doubt." Shawn is satisfied when Henry flinches. He resumes pacing, arms flailing as his thoughts tumble out. "But, Dad, I can't tell you what happened to Rocko or Donnie or even Lassiter, who might've needed my help. I don't remember getting to the hospital. But I do remember that there have been forty-seven hats in and out of this waiting room and that the charge nurse has a thing for Dalmatians. I just want it to stop! What's the point? It's all _useless_." Shawn kicks a table leg. The ensuing pain in his foot is welcome relief.

"I couldn't save her, Dad," he exhales, suppressing the urge to lash out with his sneaker again. Exhausted both mentally and physically, Shawn collapses in a chair.

Henry regards Shawn silently for a moment. Then: "Feel better now that you've gotten that crap out of your system, Shawn?"

Though stewing in anger and frustration, Shawn can do no more than quirk an eyebrow.

Henry twists to face him, expression set firmly in lecture-my-dumbass-kid mode. "So you missed a hat. A hat that was behind a well-hidden exit, so unless you are suddenly able to see through walls--"

"I should've-" Shawn interrupts, gesturing wildly, but his father's hand on his arm stops him.

"Yeah, Shawn, I _know_," Henry begins in a weary voice. He hesitates a moment.

"This is part of being an investigator, son," Henry's voice is softer now, measured and even a little gentle. "For every thousand clues that you alone notice, clues that lead you to solves, you _will_ miss hundreds of clues along the way. And you will never be the wiser. Yeah, so one time you miss a hat until a moment too late. So what? You gonna give up? It was a mistake, bad luck, and all you can do about it now is be glad you caught your perp. Be glad that Juliet will live. Learn from today and do better tomorrow."

"Wow, that was some pep talk there, Dad," Shawn snipes. His father's little speech isn't exactly a warm blankie of comfort.

Henry rolls his eyes. The gruffness returns to his voice. "Don't let this one mistake lead you to an even bigger one, Shawn. Truth is I think you know that you did your best."

Shawn bristles. Bullshit. He messed up. He failed.

"It's not that you messed up, because this is not the first time that you've made a mistake. You've made bigger, more spectacular blunders. Tonight was just a case of rough luck." Henry pauses, looking Shawn up and down. Shawn suddenly feels sympathy for some of the suspects his dad encountered over the years. "Something else about this is bothering you. You're not seeing the big picture right now. Observe your own behavior, Shawn. See how it adds up. And do something about it."

"Okay, who are you? Dr. Phil?" Shawn rockets out of his chair. He's had enough. "You know what, _Henry_, you can criticize my job and my abilities and my choices, but don't for one minute presume to know what I am feeling. Because, news flash, I _know_ what scared the crap out of me today. Watching the girl you are head over heels, butt-crazy in love with almost _die_ in your arms because _you_ failed will do that to you!"

Shawn staggers backwards under the weight of his confession. Because knowing he has feelings for Juliet is one thing, shouting them out in graphic detail in the middle of the hospital is quite another. He feels just a wee bit light headed. Butt-crazy in love? Seriously? _Wow._

Henry has the gall to look unimpressed at his revelation. "Well, _yeah_, Shawn. Any yahoo with a brain could figure that one out, even you. I don't think you're completely emotionally stunted. But you've never felt this way about a girl before. _And _the girl took a bullet for you. How do you feel about that?"

Henry crosses his arms and settles back into his chair. Clearly, he is not planning on leaving any time soon. What a fun game! Drop the emotional bomb and watch it explode. Shawn shoots his father his best death glare. Henry just rolls his eyes. Next, Shawn does the closest imitation to a petulant two-year old he can muster, stamping his feet and huffing around the room. Henry flips through a six-month old issue of _People_ magazine.

When it's clear Henry is content to ignore his tantrum forever, a beaten Shawn leans against the waiting room wall and bangs his head a few times.

Unfortunately, the follicly challenged man may have a point. Why, oh why does his father always have to be right? And swoop in dropping chestnuts of wisdom like he's freaking Roma Downey? (Or maybe Della Reese?) Shawn wants to protest his father's remarks but the truth they contain keeps him annoyingly speechless.

Because, okay, fine, the moment Juliet went down, Shawn realized the magnitude of his feelings for the detective. Before, he hadn't really thought about the fact that Juliet had come to fill every corner of his thought, that the highlight of his day was earning a smile from her. It wasn't quite something he was ready to admit to himself, let alone Juliet, yet. He'd never been in love before. Heart-shredding infatuation? Skin-burning lust? Yes and yes. But the sting of those feelings is nothing like the soul-knocking punch he felt when he saw Juliet's blood draining from her body.

He is loathe to reference Canada's version of The Boss, Mr. Bryan Adams. However, Gus spending his dateless nights taking notes from the easy-listening station has taught him a thing or two about mozzarella romance. And, yes, he has found himself thinking, in those extremely rare idle moments he has, that maybe eventually (in the far, distant future) settling down and having a couple of rugrats wouldn't be the worst thing so long as they have his awesome hair and Jules' innate kindness. He must really, really, really love that woman if he can see their unborn children in her eyes. Because _dude_. That's seriously heavy stuff.

But Shawn doesn't know how he feels about Juliet taking a bullet for him. Part of him is beyond furious at himself for screwing up so spectacularly, at Juliet for interfering, at Rocko for being a psychopath. He wants to relive the moment so he can do something, anything, to keep Juliet out of that bullet's path. He wants to wring the neck of Rocko Skibs. He wants to find a way to put himself in the bullet's trajectory instead. Part of him, a sick and twisted part, is overjoyed because it means that Juliet feels _something_ for him that would lead her to such an act of sacrifice. An even sicker and twisted-er part mocks that part with the thought that she was just doing her duty, protecting a civilian.

He needs to look into her eyes again, see her smile at him. Observe the situation. Then he'll know what to do with all these…_feelings_.

Then he can forgive himself because he can't even count the ways he's mucked up this situation.

Taking several deep, somewhat calming breaths, Shawn crosses the waiting room and falls into the chair next to his father's. He waves off the _Highlights_ magazine Henry tries to give him, crosses his arms, and waits.

But he still can't keep the thoughts from running loops around his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn is brooding in the dark at Juliet's bedside.

It has been three days since her surgery. Three days of being relieved that Juliet survived. Three days of wondering just what the heck he was supposed to say to her: _Um, good afternoon, Jules. I'm so glad you survived. So glad that it made me realize how deep my feelings for you run. All the way down to "true love," in case you're interested. But, in the future, please don't ever jump in front of a bullet for me. Okay? Thanks. Pineapple smoothies all around!_

This, he'll call it his proactive plan to avoid spewing cheesey declarations of love and soul-wrenching apologies at a sick woman's bedside, has meant three days of avoiding talking to Juliet without at least three other people in the room. Preferably people with handcuffs and weapons, lest he give in to a romantic or flirtatious impulse and need to be shackled and put down. (He's put a temporary embargo on flirting with Jules until he figures this whole thing out. It hurts, probably her more than him, but it's for their own good. Presumably.)

So, yeah, he has chickened out at exactly one thing in his life. (Okay, two, if you count that poorly executed tattoo idea.) But this is all uncharted territory for him and something he knows he can't screw up. Plus, he still feels guilty for the whole situation. And, if forced to admit it, a whole lot scared of this newly acknowledged I'm-in-love thing. What if Juliet doesn't feel the same way? Even worse, what if she _does_?

"Shawn?" Juliet's sleep-addled voice stirs him from his thoughts. He quickly drops the hand of hers that he had been...keeping safe…while she slept.

"Jules!" The quiet tone of his voice does nothing to hide his genuine surprise. It is well past visiting hours on the recovery unit. He hadn't planned on Juliet being awake during his late night vigil. At all. He wipes his palms on his jeans. There's no escaping now. All the things he's wanted, or not wanted, to say to the detective bubble up in his brain, threatening to erupt in one spectacular display of word vomit. His kingdom for a muzzle. "You're awake!"

"What are you doing here?" Juliet's forehead crinkles in an adorable way as she tries to make herself more comfortable, moving her bed into an upright position. She takes a few gasping breaths. The pain Shawn sees etched across her eyes makes him reconsider his previous observation. In pain does not equal adorable, even for Juliet.

"Visiting you. Isn't it obvious?" He bites back a grin as he watches Juliet's mind click. Heavy drugs and pain don't make logical thinking the easiest process.

She frowns, suppressing a yawn. "But…it's the middle of the night…"

"Yes, it is. And?" Shawn leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head. So far so good. He can do this. Juliet looks at him as if he were crazy.

"And…I was sleeping?" She self-consciously adjusts her hospital gown, mindful of the IVs to which she's still attached.

Shawn grins. "Like a baby kitten."

Juliet shakes her head, almost as if trying to knock some sense into herself. "Okay, first of all, 'baby kitten' is redundant. Second of all, I still don't understand why you were sitting here watching me sleep. Aren't visiting hours over? Why hasn't a nurse kicked you out yet?" She ends her rant wheezing for air, but waves off the oxygen mask Shawn tries to pass her way.

He deftly side-steps her questions, craving more of their familiar banter. "Why, Jules, it seems like you're not happy to see me. I'm wounded." He gives her his best kicked puppy expression, clutching at his heart for good measure.

Juliet is predictably flustered by his remark. "Of course I'm happy to see you, Shawn!" A smile breaks across his face. "Just not at—"she squints at the clock "_three_ o'clock in the morning?! _Shawn_!"

"Hey! It's not my fault your room is Grand Central Station! I just wanted a little one-on-one time with you, Jules!" He doesn't add that he was too afraid to have that time be when she was conscious. Baby steps, now.

"But I was _sleeping_!" Her voice is a notch louder than Shawn would like. He ignores Juliet's scowl when he shushes her, keeping one eye trained on the door for a nurse. He's a little worried Juliet is going to disregard her doctor's orders and jump out of the bed to pummel him. Which he probably deserves for about fifty percent of the thoughts running through his head. He fishes for one that's family friendly.

"I was just protecting you from the boogey man, Sleeping Beauty."

A pretty flush paints Juliet's still too pale cheeks. She drops her head, fiddling with her blanket. "Shawn, I don't need you to protect me," she says softly, sternly.

Struck by her comment, Shawn falls back in his chair. Catching Jules' eyes again, he is surprised at the tenderness they hold. Almost as if she knows she struck a chord with him. Isn't he supposed to be the psychic in this scenario? He hears a buzzing in his ears. He opens his mouth and closes it, trying not to notice the lump that's moved into his throat. Dude, he is _not_ about to cry. He isn't Gus.

He debates for a moment whether to go for the flippant remark or the truth. The truth triumphs; he's fresh out of flippant remarks and never got that muzzle he bargained for. Besides, there is no time like the present and the dim light of the quiet hospital room is about as romantic as things are likely to get for awhile. There's even a whole forest of flowers to help set the scene.

Now, he just has to keep himself from saying _everything_.

"Jules…" He finally begins and this is harder than he thought. Images from the last few days invade his head. He takes a take deep breath. "Can you promise me something?"

"I can try," Juliet replies earnestly.

He clasps her hand in his. He is relieved when she doesn't pull it away. As he leans on her bed from his chair, clutching her hand, he knows it must look like he's begging. Which he sort of is. "Promise me that you won't _ever_ jump in front of a bullet for me again. And by bullet, I mean anything including, but not limited to, a knife or sword or throwing star or Chuck Norris or anything trying to kill me."

Juliet squeezes his hand. "Shawn, you know I can't do that," she frowns at him regretfully.

"But why?" Shawn grips her hand harder.

"It's my job," she sighs and he knows she isn't telling the full truth.

Shawn shakes his head. "Fine, I know, it's your job when it comes to everyone else. But when it comes to me, can you please let me take the bullet? Because if you hadn't pulled through this like a superstar, then…" He trails off, unsure how much he is ready to say.

Juliet inhales sharply. She traces her thumb on his palm. "Then what?"

He looks her directly in the eyes, surprised at the wetness he sees there. "Then I'd be totally and completely lost, Jules," he offers, tracing his fingers delicately over her palm. He takes this turn in their relationship at full speed, no more wasted time thinking.

Juliet swallows audibly, blue eyes wide. "Shawn…remember what we decided about mistakes?"

"The only mistake would be to not give us a chance," he says firmly. Because whatever else is running through his head right now doesn't matter. There will be time enough for all that. He just needs to know that he has Juliet. That they are moving forward together. Then, maybe, this all might be worth something and he can finally sleep tonight.

Juliet hastily swipes at her eyes with her free hand. For a long second, he's afraid she's going to reject him. She won't even look at him. At last, clutching desperately at his hand, she chokes out: "I was so scared he was going to shoot you, Shawn." And then she laughs through her tears, as if she can't believe what is happening right now.

His heart races. He wants to do a happy dance right then and there. She loves him! He rains kisses on her hand. Juliet's eyes finally meet his. She is beaming. Seeing a mirror of his own happiness in Jules' face, Shawn allows himself to crack a smile.

"Let's make a deal, okay?" He can't stop looking at her, memorizing every aspect of this wonderful moment. He's glad for his eidetic memory because he will forever remember with perfect clarity the awed sparkle in her eyes and graceful curve of her lips.

She nods eagerly. "Okay."

"How about we promise to not get shot, okay? And to avoid things that might get us severely hurt or injured like abandoned houses, street fights, zombies, and Lassie before he's had his daily dose of caffeine?" He threads his fingers through hers, flashing his most playful grin.

Juliet tilts her head, an amused smirk playing on her lips. She gives his hand a tug, urging him to sit on the bed next to her. He happily complies. "Shawn, as much as I would love to promise that, you know I can't. I have to do my job. I love my job; it's part of who I am. If you can't accept that…"

"I can accept that," He affirms because deep down he understands. It sucks, but part of what he loves about Juliet is her bad-ass detective-ness. That doesn't mean he won't do everything in his considerable powers to keep her safe. But she doesn't have to know that.

"And," she continues, "I know who _you_ are, and that means that you would find yourself lost in the Trouble Forest even if you had a map to get out." He snorts at her choice of phrase. She studies him carefully, face soft. "But, that only means that we should have no regrets, right?"

Shawn nods eagerly, scooting closer to her. "Right, no regrets." His voice trails off as he leans in some more. His eyes slide shut. He leans in even further, nearly breaking his close-talking record of near-kisses with Jules when—

"WAIT!"

Shawn is stunned when he ends up with his lips to Juliet's hand. Well, that was surprising though not entirely unexpected. He sits back with a, "huh?"

"We can't have our first kiss like this, Shawn!" Juliet protests, falling back onto her pillows. She grimaces in pain.

"Like…what?" He is utterly confused. And he was so close!

"I'm in the hospital! I can barely catch my breath long enough to speak, let alone kiss you! I'm all gross because I haven't showered in four days. I have tubes coming out of my arms. And it smells weird in here. This is _not_ _romantic_!" Juliet ends her tirade breathless.

He can't exactly argue with that. Well, he _could_…but something tells him that it would not be a good start to their relationship. Relationship. Oh wow. He hadn't really thought about it like that before. Strangely though, it feels okay. Right, even. He takes a deep breath. Or two.

Shawn leans back in his seat, arms up in surrender. Though now, as ever, he can't resist the urge to whine, "But Jules! It _is_ a romantic situation. We just took a huge leap forward in our relationship after a near-death situation. There are flowers and mood lighting and _me_, looking all studly. It's like the final scene in every movie!"

Juliet gives him a harsh look. "You can take me on a date, Shawn. One date. And then, if that goes well, we'll revisit the kissing thing."

Shawn pouts. Inside, though, he's secretly amused by Juliet's stance. He finds it rather endearing when she becomes a total raging maniac about things. "Okay, fine, whatever. But only because you're the one in the hospital bed."

Juliet nods her agreement. She looks at him hopefully. "I'm getting discharged tomorrow."

"Well, then, perhaps I'll bring by take-out and DVDs? Gus scored me _Cop Rock_ bootlegs! We can have a little super-detective, gun-shot-recovery, indoor picnic?"

"It's a date." Juliet sticks out her hand. Shawn shakes it. "Now get your butt out of here so I can get some sleep without a stalker-psychic hanging over me."

Shawn salutes her as he jumps off the bed. As he moves to leave, he can't help but swoop in and plant a kiss on her cheek. And her other cheek. And her forehead. Juliet sighs happily as she sinks into her pillows.

As Shawn exits the room through its only door, smile impossible to contain, he can't help but notice that there are no hats in the hallway. But, honestly, he has so many other things to think about right now. Who cares about hats?

Well, except for that hair net on the orderly…. Does a hair net even count? Yes, yes, it definitely does.

_One hat._

After an impromptu celebratory dance, Shawn tosses his keys up in the chair, catches them with a low whistle, and struts out to the parking lot.


End file.
